She’s a flower of burned dirt
with pale and bony legs
- her emaciated thighs
etched with scars.

She’s been cutting to the music
of an inner, minatory choir
- a song of spite-filled sorrow
and perpetual farewell.

Christmas in the shadows
the hopeless hollow-days
in the kind of barren places
where our savior made his way.

The angels mark your passing
and they understand your pain
- when the roll is called in heaven
seraphim will speak her name.